


That Obvious Seduction Thing

by elle_stone



Series: Tumblr Requests [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 00:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: Clarke’s not usually one to let other people, even less pure chance, make major decisions in her life, but this is a delicate situation, and it needs to be treated as such. Would she like to push Bellamy back against the couch cushions, straddle him, and then kiss every single freckle on his unfairly beautiful face? Yes. Would doing so be worth potentially destroying her friendship with the only person she knows she can call any time, day or night? No.





	That Obvious Seduction Thing

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "I bet I can get you to scream my name," requested by anonymous on tumblr.

Two weeks ago, at Raven’s end-of-summer beach party, Clarke made the maybe-mistake of hooking up with one of her closest friends. With, basically, her best friend, if she’s being honest. She’s holding back judgement on whether the encounter was actually a mistake or not until they talk about it, which they’ve yet to do; or until it destroys their friendship, which it has yet to do; or until something more grows from it, which hasn’t happened yet either. The last two weeks haven’t been particularly awkward, but nor has there been a repeat performance of their few hours of passion in Raven’s guest bedroom. Mostly, they just hang out as part of groups. 

Then Bellamy invites himself over with a stack of DVDs and enough Chinese for four and Clarke figures, well, at least after tonight she’ll know. 

Clarke’s not usually one to let other people, even less pure chance, make major decisions in her life, but this is a delicate situation, and it needs to be treated as such. Would she like to push Bellamy back against the couch cushions, straddle him, and then kiss every single freckle on his unfairly beautiful face? Yes. Would doing so be worth potentially destroying her friendship with the only person she knows she can call any time, day or night? No. And so far he’s given no indication that he thinks of the night at the beach as anything other than a fun, impulsive, one-off between friends. 

But then again, neither has she. 

This isn’t the first time they’ve spent their Friday night sitting too close together on Clarke’s sofa, his arm around her sometimes and her head on his chest, or his legs stretched out across her legs, but tonight each of these insignificant intimacies leaves her mind racing. Is Bellamy just doing what he always does, because nothing has changed between them? Is this a sign that they’re friends still, just like before? If he were afraid to touch her, that might mean he sees any contact between them as charged with meaning and consequence, an admission that whatever they started at the party isn’t necessarily finished just yet. Maybe, paradoxically, being affectionate is his way of telling her that their friendship is safe, not to be threatened by some sexual tension that might have, once, gotten just a little bit too strong. 

Or maybe she’s overthinking all of this by half and the way his arm curls around her waist is exactly what it feels like: a nudging open of the door, a signal of openness, an invitation.  

It's probably worth it to consider what she herself wants out of this relationship now, this friendship that might be inching toward something else. But asking hard questions like that is so much more challenging than just enjoying the way his strong, warm body feels when she wraps her arm around it, or the subtle movements of his fingertips against the fabric of her shirt. This feels right. That's all she really knows. This feels right and so did the night at the beach. She's maybe not so good with labels or definitions or relationships but she wouldn't mind going to sleep with Bellamy next to her, utterly exhausted and sweaty, his hair tousled, crooked pleasure-drunk smile on his lips. And she wouldn’t mind waking up the next morning with him, either. 

The frenetic car chase scene has slowed now, blown itself up in some overwrought climactic explosion, and the screen has gone abruptly, mysteriously dark. Clarke's not at all sure what's happening, since her thoughts have been a bit distracted of late. Then the screen starts to lighten again: the gray of twilight falling through a set of floor-to-ceiling windows. She vaguely remembers this set. More importantly, she remembers the woman coming into view, walking slowly from the left of the screen toward the center. 

This isn't the sort of movie one watches for the plot anyway, so she doesn't much care that she's long lost the thread. She knows she likes this woman, beautiful and fierce, and when her equally beautiful strong-jawed male counterpart comes on screen, Clarke immediately calls a seduction scene about to start. This would usually be a guilty pleasure of hers. She'd joke about it with Bellamy, how obvious the whole thing is, how overdone, but secretly she'd be pleased at every flirty line, every subtle touch, every close-up of their faces just a little bit too close, not close enough.  

Tonight, both the guilt and the pleasure of the experience are tainted by the beat of Bellamy's heart beneath her ear. The way the woman's fingertips trail down her companion's chest makes Clarke think about how Bellamy pinned her up against the wall inside the door—it shouldn't, she knows, it's a stupid thought, a ridiculous connection. It _shouldn't_. At all. But it does. 

At the first kiss, Bellamy clears his throat. She wants to glance up at his face, see if he looks as tense as she feels, but she only shifts her legs against each other and keeps her focus on the screen. 

The woman straddles him, their bodies mere silhouettes in a long shot, foreheads touching and his hands on her hips. Then a close-up again, and they're kissing again, and her hand is on the back of his neck, fingers sliding up roughly into his hair.  

Clarke slides her hand down Bellamy's side, slowly, tracing the subtle contours of him.  

She's trying not to think about what he looked like when they, quite literally, fell into bed together, tripping over each other’s feet, his skin still warm from hours in the sun, his kisses hot and biting as they struggled with their clothes. Maybe she should stop remembering. Maybe nothing good will come of it. It's not easy, though, when the man on screen has grabbed the woman he's with by the hips, bodies slotting together in some perfectly choreographed, perfectly directed dance. All she can think is that real life isn't like that: noses bump together awkwardly, zippers get stuck, limbs don't move where they're supposed to, or not at the right time.  

It doesn't matter, though, if you can laugh about it. And she's always loved the sound of Bellamy's laugh. 

Maybe she's imagining it, but his arm seems to tighten around her, holding her a little closer. His head dips. His nose brushes against her hair. 

"I don't know if this is really the best strategy," he says, "for getting information out of him." 

Clarke has no idea what he's talking about but his voice sounds rough with words unsaid and it sends a shiver all the way through her. If only she could feel his touch on her bare skin. 

"Oh is—is that what she's doing?" Her own voice doesn't quite achieve the lightness she was aiming for. She sounds distracted and distant, like she’s been lost in her own head.  

He laughs and she thinks she might feel him kissing her hair, like an offhand friendly kiss but there's no way, there's no way it isn't so much more. No way he wasn't thinking about it for ages before he did it. No way, she tells herself, that he hasn’t been lost in his own head too. 

"You're really not paying attention to this movie at all, are you?" he asks. 

"Not really."   

Might as well admit it. She shifts a little, trying to get more comfortable, trying somehow to get closer to him. Her arm moves again, slipping until her hand is on his leg. She wouldn't have dared this particular intimacy a month ago: her hand just sitting there at the top of his thigh. 

"Are you?" she asks. "Paying attention?" 

He huffs out a small breath, not quite another laugh, and Clarke can just imagine the amused expression on his face, the slight self-deprecating smile. 

"Less and less every moment." 

"Oh, come on," she teases. "They're pretty hot. Don't you think?" 

Bellamy shrugs. Attuned to every movement of his body, Clarke feels it. "If you like that sort of thing," he says. "That obvious seduction thing." 

On screen, the woman, perhaps some sort of spy, Clarke's thinking, if she understood the opening scenes, is whispering into her target's ear, "I bet I can get you to scream my name." 

"Like that," Bellamy adds, gesturing with his free hand toward them. "That's not very subtle." 

"Oh, right, sure," Clarke grins. "Because _you're_ always the _most_ subtle." 

"If I were a spy, I would be. Hey—" He twists his head sideways, trying to meet her eye as she looks up at him, as she smiles at the comical, confused expression on his face. "Are you making fun of my seduction technique?" 

"Oh, no. Never. Of course not." 

Her voice has finally started to obey her, has settled into something friendly and easy and familiar, something she can hide behind, if she wants to. Yes, she's still thinking about her hand on his leg and his arm around her and how warm and close he is. But she could spend the rest of the night just like this with him, without crossing any lines. Without betraying herself. She could be safe, if she wanted to. 

She doesn't exactly _want_ to. But it's such a fine line, between being friends and being lovers and being, maybe someday, in love; she's not one hundred percent certain she wants to cross it just yet. 

She is, maybe, ninety-eight percent sure. 

"That's not fair," Bellamy's saying. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch is so much gentler than his words that Clarke's doesn't know, at first, quite how to read him. "It worked with you, didn't it?" 

She blinks up at him. In none of her many, many thoughts on this subject did it ever occur to her that they might, at some point, simply talk about what happened. Too many days have passed, and too many words have gone unsaid. 

Yet here it is. Acknowledgement. Out in the open. 

Clarke blinks again, then lets the moment settle. Somehow, suddenly, it seems so easy. 

She sits up a little straighter, rests her palm against his cheek, leans in so close her nose is almost bumping against his nose.  

In the background, she can just barely hear the sounds of furtive, choreographed sex from the spy and her target, fake moans and grunting that almost make Clarke want to laugh. But she doesn't, because both of Bellamy's arms are around her and she'll all but sitting, now, right in his lap. 

"Bellamy?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I bet I can get _you_ to scream _my_ name." 

He picks her up in one quick, fluid motion, her legs wrapping around his waist, a sound between a shriek and a giggle escaping before she can even think, and then they're kissing, laughing and kissing all at once, the movie forgotten as Bellamy carries her to her room. 

"Yeah," he mumbles between kisses, words almost lost against her lips. "I don't think I want to lose that bet." 

**Author's Note:**

> I am also on [tumblr](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/) where I talk about writing and sometimes accept writing requests.


End file.
